


The Game (of Love)

by hum_hum_humbug



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Pre-Reichenbach, the bachelor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:25:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hum_hum_humbug/pseuds/hum_hum_humbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want me to fucking what?” Had been John’s exact words upon hearing Sherlock’s request to go under cover as a reality show contestant.</p><p>“Can you think of a better way?”</p><p>“Sherlock, have you ever seen The Bachelor?”</p><p>“I can’t say that I have but I did google—“</p><p>“Well, I have seen the bloody Bachelor when I was unemployed and had too much time on my hands and let me tell you, it is filled with the worst sort of people on this planet. The men on that show literally string along a dozen girls (whom they barely know and all of whom claim to be madly in love with them) for weeks on end! It’s absolutely disgusting.”</p><p>“Oh and letting some man get murdered on national television is better than stringing along a few women?” Sherlock had countered.</p><p>When Sherlock had asked John to go undercover in The Bachelor, John knew that nothing good could come of it. He was right. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [John Watson, Bachelor (Director's Cut)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/711042) by [Rayonea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayonea/pseuds/Rayonea). 



> The premise of using The Bachelor was inspired by reading "John Watson, Bachelor (Director's Cut)" by Rayonea. It is a lovely fic and you all should read it. This fic bears no resemblance to it but I just wanted to give credit for the idea.

“Another case solved by Sherlock Holmes!” John says, raising a glass in toast.

“Another case solved by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” Sherlock corrects. “You were instrumental. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

They bask together in the warm afternoon glow of Venice. Sherlock’s long, lean legs stretch out in front of him. He is, for once, relaxed and entirely content as he raises his own glass of rather expensive red wine in a toast. The production budget absolutely spoils them. For all that Sherlock is only in it for the case and generally cares next to nothing about food and scenery, it is hard not to get used to delicious meals and expensive clothes. He is too used to being driven everywhere and being jetted across the world now and he despairs for when he has to pay for cabs again back in London.

“Well, that depends on how you define instrumental,” John says, laughing into his wine. “As I recall, you did most of the work and I spent most of my days flirting with seventeen different people.”

Sherlock laughs too. “John, the flirting was the most important part. Imagine if I had to do this alone! I would be dead by now, extinguished by human interaction and boredom.”

“They nearly murdered me because I kept taking you on one-on-one dates when some people hadn’t even had one!” John retorted. “I swear Karen was fantasizing about stabbing me with a fork when I finally took her out. She was quiet the whole time and when she finally spoke it was to complain about how I only ever talked to you and Mary. How was she supposed to win the competition if I didn’t let her seduce me, she wanted to know.”

Sherlock nodded in sympathy. “You’ve saved my life many times but I’ve never been more grateful to you than when you saved me from the clutches of that man…what was his name? He was eliminated in the second week, so I forget. Richard? Ross?”

“Robert,” John reminds him. “And, of course he was eliminated in the second week. Hitting on one of the other contestants right in front of me?” John jokes. In fact, Robert had not been the only Bachelor contestant to pine after Sherlock instead of the person they were supposed to be pining after: John. Sherlock found this an inconvenience and John found it hilarious. Sherlock had complained to him on multiple occasions about both the men and the women hanging about him when he was trying to read or compose in the evening and trying to flirt with him.

"Why are they even interested?" Sherlock had said despairingly.

"You are both the vainest man I know and entirely oblivious of your good looks," John had returned with a roll of his eyes. "Just try to slip out of the polite role and be yourself. I'm sure they'll get the message pretty quickly."

John seems to find the memory of Sherlock cornered by unwanted admirers to be amusing because he continues to smile to himself as he pours both of them more wine.

“Yeah, that Robert bloke had to go. I couldn’t marry someone if they were constantly hitting on my best friend,” he teases.

Sherlock freezes.

“What’s the matter?” John asks when he sees the look on his face, rather concerned.

“You mean…” Sherlock says, hesitant. “I’m your…best friend?”

Sherlock blinks at him, trying not to betray any of the emotion that threatens to bubble to the surface. He can’t let himself look like an idiot in front of the cameras. No one on the show notices the cameras any more. Seeing as they are on week ten, everyone has gotten used to behaving as if the cameras are not there at all. Sherlock has always been effective at blocking out unwanted distractions. Until now: he doesn’t want to have this moment in front of national audiences. He wants this, John’s declaration of friendship, to be private. Worse yet, if John laughs and says he had only been joking, he wants to melt away and never look anyone in the eyes again.

John looks at him, bewildered. “Sherlock,” he says, stunned. “Are you serious? Of course, you’re my best friend. Jesus, how are you surprised? What am I to _you_?”

_Everything. The only person for whom I have ever felt anything like this. The person I want to spend the rest of my life with._

But all of that is a bit Not Good to say to your best friend.

Instead he says: “Of course, you’re _my_ best friend. Everyone knows _that_. But as you’re the one who actually has other friends and isn’t insufferable to be around, I would think you’d be a bit more selective about giving out that title.”

He tries to diffuse it with a joke. He smiles to drive the point home.

“I _have_ been selective about it,” John says, not joking back. “And you’re, without a hint of a competition, the best friend that I’ve ever had.”

With those words Sherlock is in heaven. The trip has really exceeded all of his expectations. When he had first approached John with the idea, he had merely been hopeful that John would be lured into going undercover with him (however reluctantly) by the promise of over a dozen beautiful young women wanting to go out with him. He had scarcely hoped that they would spend this much time in each other’s company or that it would be so enjoyable to travel around the world together playing cat and mouse with a serial killer.

The case had simply been too interesting to give up. A serial killer whom he had been tracking for months had given him the slip. A rather clever serial killer with no discernable pattern, motive or profile. A lucky thread had led Sherlock to find one crucial lead. His dear Corkscrew Killer was applying to a reality show in order to escape him: the very first bisexual edition of _The Bachelor_. Sherlock not only admired the creativity, he also had good reason to believe that the killer was going to use this opportunity to complete his or her Magnum Opus and commit their final murder on national television. The only way to sniff out his adversary was to become a contestant on said television programme himself. The added complication was that, after googling the nonsensical programme extensively, Sherlock was certain that the titular bachelor was the intended murder victim. Sherlock desperately needed the bachelor to be a strong ally (a highly trained ex army doctor, for example) instead of a bumbling wimp in search of love who would probably faint at the sight of a serial killer.

Convincing the television network had been the easiest task in the world. Sherlock didn’t even have to resort to dragging in Scotland Yard or Mycroft. Once they had seen his files on the killer and heard of his plans they were practically weeping with excitement over the production possibilities. Sherlock should have seen it coming but he really didn’t. His knowledge of network television was profoundly lacking.

The producer, an American man by the name of Kevin Fowler, had clasped his hands with tears in his eyes. “The Corkscrew Killer? He’s been all over the news and you want to use _my show_ to catch him? Oh Mr. Holmes. Oh Mr. Holmes! And you’re a little famous on the Internet aren’t you? I looked you up before our meeting. And your friend is famous too! People read his blog by the thousands. And you want him to be the bachelor. Oh my god. Oh my god. And this is the first time there have been both male and female contestants. This is going to be the best TV event of the year. Do you even understand the ratings we’re going to get? ” Kevin shouted at him.

“No Mr. Fowler,” he had said disdainfully, clutching his files to his chest with the hand that was not in Kevin’s vice-like grip. “I really don’t.”

Kevin had laughed and clasped his hand even harder. “No you don’t! Oh you’re so precious. You were made to be on reality TV. Look at your face! Hundreds of women are going to fall in love with you.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Sherlock had said, rather clipped, as Kevin grinned at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I could kiss you, Mr. Holmes,” Kevin said. “Folks back in New York are going to want me to export the show there. You and I are going to make the best TV this country has ever seen.”

Sherlock could not have disagreed more but he knew when to refrain from disagreeable remarks in order to get his way.

“You’re going to need to slip in subtle interview questions to make sure the contestants you choose don’t know who John and I are,” Sherlock instructed. “I’ve prepared these questions and left them in the file for you. Asking about their media consumption, what blogs they read, what their interests are should do the trick.”

Kevin had frowned then. “How do you know the Corkscrew Killer will even make it past the interview round?”

“Oh she will,” Sherlock had promised. “She’s exceedingly clever. You don’t need to go out of your way to make sure she succeeds. Just ask the questions I prepared and she’ll make her way through.”

“How do you know it’s she?”

“Just a hunch,” Sherlock had said. “I hope you understand I’m going to need your full cooperation on this. I’ve read up on the various mindless rules and activities and dates in your programme. If I need to bend a few of them to catch the killer, you need to let me without me having to bring Scotland Yard into it. Is that clear?”

Kevin suddenly drew back, all business instead of warmth and admiration. Sherlock liked that better. He generally trusted cold rationality more than mindless niceties.

“You give me production value and I’ll let you do whatever you want. The audience will know your identity and Dr. Watson’s as well. It will essentially be two shows in one! One show is about Dr. Watson finding a potential love interest and the real show is going to be about a crime-fighting duo undercover in a reality show. So if you need to use your one-on-one dates with John to track down clues, we would be more than happy to let you do that instead of going to see the Eiffel tower. But I want to be able to film it!”

“Fine. I don’t see why not. By the time you air your insipid excuse of a show, I will have already caught the killer. But I’m not going to slow down in my process if your crew falls behind!”

“Pretend the cameras aren’t there,” Kevin agreed. “That’s not your concern. You just be your dramatic self and let the ratings roll in.”

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed.

“Fantastic,” Kevin said.

“Send me the contracts directly after they are drawn. I’ll look them over,” Sherlock had agreed.

“Mr. Holmes,” Kevin had said just as Sherlock reached for the door. “Are you and Dr. Watson—“

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, we are not! We are friends and for the purposes of interacting in front of the other contestants, we are all going to pretend that John and I are strangers. And he’s only ever shown interest in women,” Sherlock snapped. “Will that be a problem for you?”

Kevin shrugged, not at all concerned. “Not even a bit. As long as he pretends he’s at least a little bit interested in men, for the cameras, what do I care? Just because I’m gay, doesn’t mean I have any emotional investment in this. It’s just business. He can choose a woman in the end, if he wants.”

Sherlock blinked at him a few times. “Choose…”

“Well, he can refuse to choose anybody if that’s what he wants,” Kevin said. “But that rarely happens on the show and while he’s at it, going undercover and all, he might as well find a date, eh?”

“Right,” Sherlock had said on his way out. “Right”

Convincing John had been a bit more difficult.

“You want me to _fucking what?_ ” Had been John’s exact words upon hearing Sherlock’s request.

“Can you think of a better way?”

“Sherlock, have you ever seen _The Bachelor_?”

“I can’t say that I have but I did google—“

“Well, I have seen the bloody _Bachelor_ when I was unemployed and had too much time on my hands and let me tell you, it is filled with the worst sort of people on this planet. The men on that show literally string along a dozen girls (whom they barely know and all of whom claim to be madly in love with them) for weeks on end! It’s absolutely disgusting.”

“Oh and letting some man get murdered on national television is better than stringing along a few women?” Sherlock had countered.

John had grimaced. “No. Jesus. Of course not. But you _know_ I’m a shit actor and I can’t do that. I can’t fake it.”

“There are bound to be some acceptable women in the mix,” Sherlock had argued. “They can’t be more boring than your usual sort. Perhaps you won’t have to fake it. You can find a girlfriend!”

“Did you just try to trick me into this by offering me a hypothetical girlfriend?”

“I don’t have to. I know you’re much more tempted by the offer of a non-hypothetical serial killer.”

“You know how this will end, right? You’ll have a plan and keep me in the dark. The serial killer will somehow manage to get me. And I’ll be one step away from being gutted by a corkscrew and you’ll blaze in and save the day. Or not. Who knows, with you?!”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “I wouldn’t let that happen,” he promises, fiercely. “I wouldn’t invite you if I didn’t think we could do this without you coming to harm. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t intend for us to work as a team. I won’t keep you in the dark.”

John sighed. His resolve crumbling around him. “I know you’d hate spending quality time with two dozen people but wouldn’t you rather go undercover as the bachelor yourself?”

“Oh no. I have to be one of the contestants so I can observe them up close. I need you not only because you can take care of yourself but also because I need you to make sure I get through to the next round,” Sherlock had explained.

“Wait. One of the contestants?” John asked, laughing. “You do realize that you’re, you know, a man?”

“Do keep up, John. It’s the first bisexual bachelor,” Sherlock had snapped. “Sorry to offend your unimpeachable heterosexuality. No one was going to force you to make out with men. You only had to chitchat with a few of them and then eliminate them in the next few rounds. Never mind. I’ll just find someone else.”

“Hey, hey! Slow down. I didn’t know, okay? I have no problem with…that,” John had stammered. “And if you think I’m going to let you go tracking down a maniac who likes to gut people with corkscrews and knows exactly who you are, you have another thing coming.”

So if Sherlock hadn’t suspected that the case would turn out to feel more like an international adventure with his best friend than a tedious waiting game with a serial killer, it was because they had gotten off to a rocky start.

And despite the wonderful time Sherlock has had on this vacation, he is fully aware that this very endeavor, to which he himself had invited John, had probably lost him John’s companionship forever. The bitter irony of it all! It’s when he’s finally managed to exchange confirmation of friendship with John and spend months having adventures with him across the globe that he is finally losing him.

Against all odds, John has gone and fallen in love on a preposterous telly programme (that was never meant to be anything but a front for crime fighting) with a woman named Mary Morstan. How utterly tedious.

  
John and Sherlock are on their last “date” before the final ceremony: a full day in Venice, drinking wine outdoors in one of the most expensive restaurants in the city and celebrating their capture of the Corkscrew Killer. John’s final three selections from the contestants had been Sherlock, the killer (a woman named Kate Stevens) and Mary. As the first two choices had been case-related, obviously, John’s final choice was already made. In fact, his final choice had been clear all along as he had spent all the time he didn’t dedicate to crime solving,joking and talking with Sherlock (which, to be fair, was a lot of the time) flirting with Mary. Sherlock had watched helplessly as John fell in love more and more every day.

Sherlock had offered to skip the “date”.

“We don’t have to go out together,” Sherlock had insisted. “We’re done with the case and the audience certainly knows why we’re here. Mary knows the truth. We have no one left to fool!”

“Sherlock, Venice is beautiful and we spent all of our time in Bangkok and Paris and Istanbul going on silly activities or tracking down evidence against Stevens to really take in the sights. It’s not our money. Let them treat us to a day out. What else are you going to do? Mope around the hotel and complain that you’re bored?”

The producer and director had been adamantly on John’s side. Apparently, they were the biggest draw of the show. Most of the episodes had aired already (they let everyone to catch up so they could air the finale live) and ratings were through the roof.

“They don’t even fucking care about the contestants anymore,” Kevin had told them. “Reviewers are literally going crazy for you two and your detective spiel.”

“Detective spiel?” Sherlock had protested but John had shushed him gently.

“You have to go on your last date!” Kevin had said, siding with John. “They will literally fucking watch you eat food for two hours if that’s all you do. They don’t fucking care. They fucking love you two. You’re on the cover of every fucking tabloid in the UK. American audiences are watching it on YouTube. Wasted fucking market for advertisement! I’m ready to sign a $70,000 per episode contract with you right this second: your own show on American TV.”

“What?” John had stuttered.

“Just filming you guys solve crimes. No strings. No expectations,” Kevin had said, excited. “You don’t need to do a thing differently. They fucking love your dynamic. You can live off the money forever.”

John had looked sorely tempted by the idea but Sherlock had cut in: “Absolutely not. John and I would rather starve than be the stars of a vapid television programme.”

Kevin was crestfallen. “Think about it, okay?” he’d said to John in a whisper that he thought Sherlock couldn’t hear.

So Sherlock had agreed to go on the full-day “date” with John and had thus far passed one of the most enjoyable days of his life. It was on par with some of his cases. To Sherlock’s surprise and horror they hadn’t even done much. It should be absolutely horrifying that Sherlock could be happy doing boring, normal things all day but he was utterly blissful. They had walked along the canal, bickered about who had knocked out Kate Stevens, deduced annoying tourists in St. Mark’s square and eaten far more pasta than was necessary. Now, they were lounging in the sun, full and half-drunk on expensive wine.

Yet Sherlock was half joy and half agony because he had been peripherally aware of the outline of a ring box in John’s left pocket all morning. It was worse than he thought. John hadn’t just found a new girlfriend. He was going to propose to said new girlfriend.

Sherlock snaps himself back out of his thoughts and back to the present and the fact that John has just called him the best friend he’s ever had.

_I’m not a good friend. I can’t even be happy for you because I’m a jealous, selfish sociopath. If I were a friend you truly deserved I would be happy simply to see you happy._

Instead he says: “I feel the same way.”

John smiles at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the smile, the sun making his expression even more luminous.

“She’s going to say yes,” Sherlock says, not able to help himself.

“What?” John says, genuinely confused.

“The ring in your pocket. She’s going to say yes,” Sherlock repeats.

John blushes a little. “Of course you noticed! Chris gave it to me this morning, they were sizing the ring and it just got ready this morning, and I didn’t have a chance to drop it off in my room. Of course I told them you’d deduce it and spoil the ending for everyone at home,” John says, shaking his head. He turns to address the camera. This is a faux-pas in the making of reality television and one that John and Sherlock commit frequently because it amuses them and also because they are the stars and can get away with it: “You can cut this bit out later in the editing room! Make sure there are no spoilers for our happy viewers. Because Sherlock just deduced the shape of a ring-box in my pocket…definitely one of his most astonishing feats to date.”

Sherlock laughs at his antics and the obvious displeasure of the filming crew, who remain silent but scowl furiously at the breach of the fourth wall.

“Come on,” Sherlock says brightly, burying the sadness deep inside him in favor of basking in John’s good mood. “Our gondola is waiting.”

“Gondola?” John smiles, a little skeptical but grabs the wine bottle from the table and follows him obediently.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, they do keep shoving their romantic television tropes in our faces despite everything. It’s clearly a ploy to add an additional comedic angle to their insipid show. ‘Oh look, in addition to solving murders they have to navigate the awkwardness of candlelit dinners! Hilarious.’” Sherlock jokes in his usual acidic tone. The crew had long given up on stopping him from insulting the show on camera. In fact, Kevin loved and encouraged it: “It’s drawing in a whole new demographic of people who don’t even watch reality TV! They tune in every week just to hear Sherlock insult the intelligence of the show. It’s pure genius.”

“I don’t think our candlelit dinners have ever been awkward,” John says in a steady voice.

Sherlock looks over at him and catches the guarded expression on his face. That was perhaps not the right thing to say and revealed too much about his own nervousness. Of course, John wouldn’t find them awkward. He wasn’t the one harboring secret feelings.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he said hastily. “They just do it to add intrigue to the show.”

They walk in comfortable silence to the Grand Canal, where their gondola is waiting for them complete with predicted romantic elements: roses, champagne, chocolates and a violin. John and Sherlock both chuckle at the accuracy of Sherlock’s predictions and hop aboard. As their gondolier sets about rowing them on the pleasantly warm and crowded waters of the Grand Canal, they dedicate themselves to the task of finishing their wine and working through the chocolate and champagne, resolutely ignoring the single camera man hunched in the front of the boat. It’s easy to ignore an entire film crew rowing alongside them when they’re giggling about inside jokes and tasting their way through a box of sweets. Sherlock is light and tipsy and infinitely grateful to be sharing all these moments with John, even if they are limited.

“I think they left the violin there for you to serenade me with,” John teases good-naturedly, shoving the violin towards him.

Sherlock may have hesitated when sober but he is rather drunk at the moment and hops up to accommodate John’s request in a heartbeat. He plays Vivaldi as John stretches out in the evening light and his eyes flutter closed, smiling serenely. He watches John out of the corner of his eyes, not daring to be caught staring on camera but needing to memorize John’s soft, joyful expression regardless. He needs to remember that though he may be in love with Mary, Sherlock can still make him smile, make him happy, if only just for a day. He pours everything into the strings, making them ache with the bittersweet joy of the day he has just spent with John.

When he finishes John cracks an eyes open to grin at him in appreciation and several other nearby gondolas burst with applause. Sherlock jerks back to the present and glares at them in annoyance. John laughs as Sherlock puts down the violin and flops down next to him.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters.

“It’s hard not to be moved when you play so well,” John says sincerely. “I don’t blame them.”

The flattery mollifies Sherlock effectively and he is reduced to a heavy mass of limbs lounging in the Venetian sunset. His head spins a little and he wonders if it’s the champagne or just John.

“John,” he says before he can stop himself. “When are you moving out?”

John looks over at him, eyebrows knit together in concern. “You could pretend to be less eager to get rid of me,” he teases.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not what I meant. You’re getting engaged. Obviously you would want to live with your fiancée. I’m only asking so I know when to prepare for the eventuality.”

John simply stares at him with suspicion and doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll visit me often, won’t you?” Sherlock says before he can stop himself. He’s drunker than he realized and being rather maudlin. It’s nauseating but he can’t help it. “You know I’ll only wreck the place if you stay away for too long. Mrs. Hudson will be furious. You’ll have to come visit, if only to please her.”

“Sherlock, I haven’t gone yet. Nothing is set,” John protests. “I’m still living there.”

Not for very long, Sherlock thinks.

“I honestly can’t congratulate you,” Sherlock says. “Love is an emotional thing and all it does is cloud the precise, cold, calculated reason that I value above everything else. It’s a weakness.”

He turns to look at John who is lying right next to him, so close that their shoulders are nearly touching. John is frowning at him, clearly upset. Of course he is. Sherlock is saying things that are very Not Good.

“Sherlock,” John says, a note of warning in his voice.

And who is Sherlock to judge him when he is the weak one? Sherlock is a coward for whom love is a terrible weakness, who is practically withering under his inability to comprehend his love for John, who is too weak to be happy that the man he loves has found happiness elsewhere. John is the bravest man he has ever known and has grown stronger and happier as he has fallen in love. It’s clear that Sherlock is, for once, very wrong.

“That was before I knew you, however,” Sherlock concedes. “And your love for Mary has really done nothing but make you an even more capable soldier and doctor and a better man, if that were even possible. Even geniuses are wrong sometimes.”

“Sherlock,” John repeats, softly. Sherlock has no idea what he’s trying to say but he averts his eyes and plows on.

“So, I guess what I’m saying is…I’m happy for you,” Sherlock says, almost choking under the effort it takes to say it. He stares at the blue-red sky above them, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. “You deserve so much happiness and I…I’m so pleased for you.”

“I…um…thank you,” John stammers, reaching on a hand to rest on his elbow. “Not just for…that but for today. I had a really great time. I love…spending time with you.”

Sherlock blinks. They must both be drunker than he realized. John doesn’t usually say things like that. They lounge in comfortable silence, John’s hand on his elbow, tipsy and content in the warm evening as they are rowed to their hotel, as if all if well with the world.

But the truth is that John kissed him once. They were in Istanbul and Sherlock had already deduced that Kate Stevens was the Corkscrew Killer. Still, they couldn’t prove it without tangible evidence. Sherlock saying that she had telling calluses on her thumb and forefinger may be enough for Lestrade but it wouldn’t be enough for the jury. So they were on one of their many one-on-one dates, which they used as a cover for having time alone to work on the case and, which were the cause for much melodrama between the contestants.

No sooner was he back from one of these one-on-one dates that the whole group was upon him like vultures, demanding details.

“He’s taken you out four times now! If he’s already made up his mind, why are we even here?” Karen had wailed in despair.

“Are you fucking him?” had been the less delicate interrogation from Sophia.

“He doesn’t even seem particularly interested in cock, what’s so special about you?” had been the complaint from David, who had told them all about the fact that he had kissed John last week and John had kissed him back with minimal enthusiasm. This, Sherlock knew, was a part of John’s campaign to show at least some interest in the other contestants (men and women alike) to keep the show exciting and not violate their contracts.

“And he doesn’t even pay you attention when we’re in groups or anything. He doesn’t even invite you on group dates! He spends most of his time talking to Mary or Karen. So how do you get him to keep taking you out on one-on-one dates? So what’s the deal? He fucks you on the side and dates everyone else?” Marissa had accused.

“Ladies, gentlemen. I’m not going to entertain questions about things that are absolutely none of your business,” Sherlock would snap every time, retreating to his room. It was bad enough watching pretty women fling themselves at John every day, it was even worse to be reminded of their lack of romantic connection so crudely.

But then, they had been in Istanbul and Sherlock was positive that Stevens was going to buy more of the paralytics she used on her victims from a well-known Turkish drug smuggler and they had spent the whole night on top of a centuries’ old mosque waiting for the deal to happen. And then they had gone on a mad chase across Istanbul, only to lose track of the drug smuggler in a deserted alleyway that led to the old town market.

They had leaned against a dirty cement wall, laughing and breathless. And Sherlock had sworn out loud and cursed the fact that he hadn’t memorized the alleyways of Istanbul before their stakeout, while John laughed at him. And then, they weren’t laughing anymore, they were simply leaning against a dirty wall, gasping for breath and smiling at each other.

John had simply pulled on his lapels, as if it were the easiest thing in the world and not absolutely terrifying and impossible, and kissed him firmly against the wall with one hand cupping his cheek. His lips were warm and soft and moved against Sherlock’s with ease. It was over in a moment and John was pulling away from him before he could deepen the kiss, leaving a cold empty space in his arms. From the end of the alleyway there was the sound of running footsteps: the camera crew was catching up with them.

“Sorry,” John had mumbled looking in their direction nervously, dragging a hand across his face. “I didn’t want to…sorry.”

Sherlock’s stomach plunged into the abyss. It was the most devastating thing he had ever heard. He didn’t want John to be sorry for kissing him. He would prefer not to have been kissed by John at all than to live with the knowledge that John had kissed him and was now sorry.

John was always the one to be mindful of their contract and to try to please the producers. It wasn’t unlikely that he had kissed him in a mix of adrenaline and a desire to follow Kevin’s command that he “fucking kiss everyone who is still on the show because there is only six of them left and you need to have chemistry with all of them otherwise it’ll be obvious you don’t want them here”. John had probably been so woozy from the chase and so adamant about showing romantic interest in everyone around him that he’d momentarily forgotten who he was with.

“It’s perfect fine,” Sherlock had said hastily, not wanting John to feel more uncomfortable than he already was. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember who you’re standing next to. It’s perfectly understandable under the circumstances. Unfortunately, you missed the camera by a mere second!” Sherlock pointed out, gesturing at the crew, who had finally caught up with them, with a nod of his head.

“That’s not—“ John started.

“Whoa! You two are fast, aren’t you?” Paul, the AD, had said, clutching at his sides with the effort it took to catch his breath. “Blimey, I can’t feel my legs.”

“You’re actually the most amazing reality stars I’ve ever worked with. You’re like superheroes, the way you chased after that guy! And you basically write your own damn dialogue. You’d be surprised how much of reality programming is scripted. You’re exciting without even trying to be and you’re champs enough to kiss for the camera. That isn’t something you always get,” Chris chimed in with genuine admiration, also breathless but marginally more functional than Paul. “Mind doing another take of that, mate? I caught a bit of it but it’s so dark that it’s going to be all grainy. I think if we’re going to stage a kiss for you we could get some proper lighting, do some good dialogue leading up to it. What d’you think?”

Sherlock thought that he knew beyond a reasonable doubt that he would puke if he stayed there another moment.

“Please excuse me,” was all he managed before turning on his heels and heading towards the hotel.

“Jesus Christ. Sherlock!” he heard John call after him and he sped up, vanishing around a corner and taking a complicated route back to the hotel, just to make sure they (John) wouldn’t catch up with him.

They had never mentioned that night, nor had there been any awkwardness between them. But Sherlock thought of it every day and never more than when he knew he was going to lose John in just a few days. Never more than when they were lying drunk, side-by-side on a gondola in Venice.

“Ah, we’re here. We’re at the hotel,” John says, clambering to stand and offering Sherlock a hand.

Sherlock touches his lips absently as they make their way down the street to the hotel and thinks that perhaps that is the problem. If kissing John had remained out of the question, perhaps Sherlock could have survived this.

But the truth is that John kissed him once and Sherlock hasn’t stopped thinking about it for a moment.

"Jones gets the credit, I fall in love. What about you?" John says with great affection in his voice as they finally arrive at the hotel.

Sherlock looks at him, urging his heart to not jump out of his chest. "For me, there's always the game."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And suddenly, it isn’t funny anymore. John had felt buoyant and elated about finally confessing his feelings to Sherlock. Sherlock’s misunderstanding had seemed hilarious to him and he had been giddy at the thought of setting him straight- so to speak-and sweeping him off his feet. But the lightheartedness had been a mistake on John’s part because suddenly he’s reminded that Sherlock doesn’t just have a crush on him. Sherlock loves him and Sherlock is ready to encourage him to marry someone else because that would make him happy. 
> 
> This is what it’s like to be loved by Sherlock Holmes.

When Sherlock had asked John to go undercover in _The Bachelor_ , John knew that nothing good could come of it. He was right. Sort of.

Well, now he knows that Sherlock is in love with him. And that is nice. John loves him too and loves him madly. He is about to declare his love to Sherlock. They are going to spend the rest of their lives together. John is well chuffed and all that. It’s all fine and well. But John also likes to think that they would have gotten there on their own eventually. They could have gotten there without the stupid reality show.

It has taken months of Sherlock looking at him longingly across rooms and one very memorable kiss in Istanbul for John to confirm that Sherlock feels the same way about him. But surely, even if they had stayed at 221B, John would have noticed the correlation between Sherlock’s bad moods and John’s date nights. Sherlock would have noticed the way John cut all of his dates short to come home and eat takeaway with him instead. They would have gotten there. Instead John had been forced to wine and dine over a dozen people, most of whom were shallow and vain and a few of whom were genuine and kind but still naïve enough to think they would “fall in love” with a man they had only exchanged five words with.

“I really think I’m falling in love with you,” Karen had said to him on their first date. She was a funny and bookish high school teacher whom he had asked on one of the one-on-one dates because she was one of the few “normal” ones.

“Mmmm right,” John had said thoughtfully in response to that declaration of love. “Dessert?”

Janette had tried to snog him before they had even exchanged a word by way of greeting. John had declined as politely as one could decline the sudden presence of teeth and tongue on one’s face.

Kate Stevens had seemed awkward and charming and had gotten to the third round all on her own before Sherlock deduced that she was the killer and ordered John to make sure she got to the final three so they could lay a trap for her.

Robert had told him point blank when they met on the first day of shooting that he was far more interested in “the tall curly haired bloke who’s been sulking in the corner all night” and that Robert was going to “suck him off before the night was through” and that they would drop out of the competition together and run off into the sunset.

“You’re going to run off into the sunset with Sherlock?” John had laughed at that for two minutes straight until there were tears running down his face. “Oh, that’s so good. That’s so good,” John had said breathlessly to a stunned looking Robert. “Seriously. My good wishes to you both. He seems like a handful of sunshine, that one. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

Later that evening he’d had to save a cornered Sherlock from Robert’s advances.

“Oh thank goodness, John,” Sherlock had said once John had shooed Robert away from a flustered looking Sherlock. “He wasn’t responding to any of my usual dismissals. What a remarkably persistent man.”

“Not a problem. Sorry you had to go through that,” John had clucked sympathetically.

“Are you really?” Sherlock said skeptically. “Because he asked me to run away with him and said he had already run the idea by you and that you seemed, I quote, ‘surprisingly in favour of it.’”

John had erupted into a bout of uncontrollable laughter. Sherlock glared at him for his betrayal before joining him with his own low chuckle.

“Shhhh we can’t giggle,” John had said. “We’re supposed to be complete strangers.” 

Then there was David. He was genuinely nice and fun to talk to and had confessed to John that he had only signed up for the show because his mates had forced him to. 

“I have rubbish luck with dates and they thought it would be a nice way to get me out,” he had shrugged.

John had been genuinely sorry to string him along and had felt incredibly guilty for returning his kiss.

Of course, there was Mary who had been a gift throughout the entire thing.

“So are you undercover?” had been the first thing she had said to him when they sat down together.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh please,” she had said. “I read your blog. They tried to ask us questions to make sure we had no idea who you two are when we were auditioning and that just made me more eager to end up on the show! My friends signed me up as a joke. I didn’t even want to get on the show but then…I’ve been obsessed with those detective stories on your blog and I thought ‘what if I get to see one firsthand?’”

After much assurance that she would keep their secret from the other contestants, they had become fast friends. She had been the one to help him deduce Sherlock’s feelings for him. She had been the person he talked to on the group dates when Sherlock was off investigating. It had been fantastically helpful to have an ally on the show. And her knowing their real purpose meant that he was able to ask Sherlock and Mary on a two-on-one date and then use that time to investigate the crime. And of course, Sherlock bloody Holmes, who was a genius when it came to everything except feelings, had assumed he was in love with Mary, when in fact he’d been in love with Sherlock all along and was ecstatic to find that Sherlock loved him back.

One day, while they were in a taxi in Bangkok, he’d been humming to himself and smiling at the thought of being back at Baker Street with Sherlock, only to find Sherlock examining his expression with wide eyes.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock had said in realization, examining his lovesick expression. “You’ve actually gone and fallen in love.”

John had blushed a little, a little relieved that Sherlock had caught on.

“Well, I suppose Mary is better than your usual sort,” Sherlock had said.

And John had longed to set him straight. John had longed to tell him the truth so many times but the fact was that his genius flat-mate had absolutely buggered up their contracts: John was contractually obligated not to tell any of the contestants he loved them.

Sherlock had negotiated all the case related aspects of their contracts with the meticulous care and expert skills of a barrister. He had ensured that nothing would interfere with The Work but had confessed to John before they arrived on set: “I didn’t even bother reading the parts about the show. It was a part of the negotiation. They have full control of us where it concerns the competition and I have control over the case. So just do whatever it is they need you to do to and keep them happy. Apparently they are entitled to sue us for two million pounds if we violate our terms of agreement.”

“Jesus Christ! Sherlock!”

“Don’t worry. I’d be able to get us out of it if necessary but let’s make sure it’s not necessary, shall we?”

And so John had taken the mindless advice that the producers had given him on his first day of shooting.

“Make sure you show them that you appreciate them,” Kevin Fowler had said. “You can say things like ‘I love spending time with you’ or ‘I really like you’ but you absolutely can’t hint at whom you’re going to choose or say you love them because that would give away the ending.”

“That’s idiotic,” John had countered and fully planned on never using any of those phrases.

Until a few weeks later when he had caught Sherlock looking at him longingly during one of the pre-rose ceremony receptions and realized that what he wanted might be possible after all.

And then, it seemed like he couldn’t help the fact that “I love you” was on the tip of his tongue every moment of the day and he had to stop himself and turn it into “I love…that we went worked on the case together today.”

In fact, he made so many superfluous declarations about how much he enjoyed running around, trying to catch Kate Stevens, that Sherlock finally called him out on it.

“I really...that was amazing. I really loved doing that,” John had said of their latest excursion. 

“Why do you keep saying that? Of course you did. We love solving crimes, that’s what we do. Why wouldn’t you enjoy it? Why do you keep saying that? What’s gotten in to you lately?” had been Sherlock’s huffy reply.

But for all of Sherlock’s bravado, John wasn’t blind to the fact that he melted under the warmth of affection and praise. Being isolated from their usual environment and their friends meant he got to see the way Sherlock’s eyes lit when he walked into the room, the way he and Sherlock were always aware of each other’s exact location even if they didn’t speak all night and the way Sherlock looked despairing every time John pretended to be having a blast with one of the contestants.

He’d finally confirmed this with the kiss in Istanbul. He’d seen the question in Sherlock’s eyes and had answered it with all his heart. Of course he’d pulled away at the sound of the camera crew approaching because he hadn’t wanted their first kiss to be on camera. But then Sherlock had mistaken his actions to mean that he regretted the kiss. 

And now. Now he finally has the chance to lay his heart out for Sherlock and to apologize for the hurt and confusion of the past few weeks. They will have a laugh over the misunderstanding, surely. And they will fall into each other’s arms and race back to Baker Street and away from the melodrama of the reality show.

John feels foolish standing in a dramatic stone arena in the middle of a field with cameras pointed at him. This is it. This is the finale of the show.

He watches as Sherlock tumbles out of a giant SUV, looking as cool as a movie star with his black suit and casually disheveled hair. The sun catches his profile _just so_ and John almost swoons at the elegant lines of his friend’s face. Those eyes, that hair, the cheekbones, those lips. Sherlock is striking in an unwelcoming and haughty way that scares most people. As for John, he has stopped being able to differentiate between the objective quality of Sherlock’s features and the fact that, for him, they are fused with every quality he loves about Sherlock. To John, he is breathtaking. 

John tries to stop himself from over-romanticizing the moment but then Sherlock makes eye contact with him from a distance and his face relaxes into a genuinely affectionate smile and John falls in love with him all over again, tragically and hopelessly.

Sherlock squints slightly into the evening light and gives him a small, unsure wave of the hand. And John grins foolishly. This is it. He is finally going to be with this man whom he loves so dearly. Sherlock takes long strides to where John is standing by a table with the final rose resting on it and offers him a sympathetic nod.

“Isn’t it ridiculous?” Sherlock huffs and John can see, now that they are closer, that Sherlock doesn’t look all that radiant. He looks pale and tired. “I tried to talk them out of making me come here but they said it was in the contract. You have to “break up” with one contestant before you can choose the other. I expressed to them that this was an utter waste of everyone’s time. Yet I was forcibly dragged here. So there! We’ve made our bit quick. I’ll be out of your hair now. Give my best to Mary.”

 Sherlock doesn’t look well at all. Well, he looks good by human standards but he looks awful by Sherlock standards.

“That’s it?” John asks. “You think I should marry her?”

Sherlock blinks at him. “Well, perhaps not right away. A long engagement would be best in order to confirm that your relationship is mutually satisfactory in the real world. But I wouldn’t worry if I were you. You seem remarkably happy together.”

John closes the distance between them, feeling a little playful. “And you can’t think of a single good reason why Mary and I shouldn’t be together?” he says flirtatiously.

Sherlock blinks again and looks away quickly, pale and trembling slightly. “None…none that matter. None that matter as much as the fact that you will be happy together.”

And suddenly, it isn’t funny anymore. John had felt buoyant and elated about finally confessing his feelings to Sherlock. Sherlock’s misunderstanding had seemed hilarious to him and he had been giddy at the thought of setting him straight- so to speak-and sweeping him off his feet.  But the lightheartedness had been a mistake on John’s part because suddenly he’s reminded that Sherlock doesn’t just have a crush on him. Sherlock _loves_ him and Sherlock is ready to encourage him to marry someone else because that would make him happy.

This is what it’s like to be loved by Sherlock Holmes.

And John falls even more in love with him, if that were even possible. His insides turn to stone at the thought of Sherlock suffering a perceived rejection, not just of romantic love, but also of the supremacy of their life together at Baker Street over everything else.

“I better get going so they can get Mary here,” Sherlock says, still not meeting his eyes, and starts to turn away.

“Sherlock,” he says, pulling him back by the elbow. “Mary was already here. I already broke up with her.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock says, looking pleased for a brief second before schooling his features into a sympathetic grimace. “John, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Truly, I am.” He pauses, seems to struggle with how best to comfort John and then gives up. “Shall we head back to Baker Street then?" 

John is tempted to say yes. He is tempted to get out of the ridiculous production and have this conversation later, in the safety of their living room. He is not particularly keen on having this moment on national television and he is loath to force Sherlock to be vulnerable in front of _anyone,_ let alone cameras.

But Sherlock needs to know. He needs to know that John loves him _right now._ Not only that, John needs to prove to him that he loves him without shame or reservation. As garish as the setting is, John has always been the one to deny the possibility of their involvement in front of acquaintances and he needs to make it clear that he loves Sherlock not as a secret to be tucked away but as the greatest accomplishment of his life. Besides, he has to admit to himself that he is a little worried about finding the right moment to have this confrontation if they settle back into the rhythm of their friendship in 221B.

“Actually, I was rather hoping you would accept the last rose,” John says to him, smiling with great affection.

Sherlock’s eyes widen for a moment before snorting. “Yes, John. Very funny.Yes. I accept the rose. We do end up going home together, don’t we? Come along now. Don’t be tedious.”

“No, Sherlock. Mary and I were never together. We were just friends. I mean to say…” he says. “I mean to say that I love you terribly. I mean to say I was in love with you all along but couldn’t say it because of our idiotic contracts. I mean to say I want to be with you, if you’ll have me.”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment that feels like eternity, his face blank and his skin even paler than it was a second ago.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this but it isn’t amusing, John,” he says finally, a frown on his face.

John sighs. It’s worse than he thought. Sherlock really doesn't know.

Sherlock turns to leave and John grabs him to keep him close. “I’m not joking, I—“

“I need to sit. I can’t breathe,” Sherlock says, a little choked.

“Yes. I know that it’s quite a surprise but—“

“Stop it! Stop it, now. I need to go," Sherlock insists, looking unsettled.

“If you’d listen—“

“Let me go. I need to—”

“I love you.”

“Stop this. I want to go home. Please,” Sherlock says, breaking John’s hold on his arms and twisting away from him, an anguished look on his face.

“All right. Okay. Anything you want,” John agrees, realizing that thrusting this on Sherlock so suddenly had been an unkind thing to do. They can discuss it at home. “But I do love you,” he adds quietly, smoothing Sherlock’s curls away in a quick, tender gesture. And that’s when he realizes…

“My god, you’re burning,” he says. In his excitement, he had attributed Sherlock’s pallor and slight shaking to nervousness but what he now realizes is that Sherlock is absolutely ill and barely standing.

“Oh my god. You’ve got a high fever,” he says, catching Sherlock by both shoulders. His friend is pale and breathing hard from the effort of standing upright. “I am so sorry. I’m an idiot to not realize it. You’re about to collapse.”

Sherlock stops pretending to be fine, he leans against John and allows himself to be guided to sit on one of the stone ledges circling the arena. 

“Hey, hey,” John soothes, running a hand across Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re fine. You’ve probably got the flu and on top of that you’re severely dehydrated. Just sit here. I’m going to call for the medics and get you some water.”

Sherlock shakes his head, looking delirious. “No, no. Home. We need to—“

“We will. We’ll go home. But _you_ need to get to a hospital right now and get hooked to antibiotics and a drip IV,” John says in his best soothing voice. “Relax. I’ve got you now,” he adds in a quiet whisper, squeezing Sherlock’s hand tenderly.

John turns to the two cameramen. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll be right back. There is no mobile signal here. I’m just going to fetch the stand-by medics at the production site,” he orders in a Captain Watson voice.

“John, no,” Sherlock mumbles weakly, shaking his head. “Don’t go. Don’t. Mary. You have to…Mary. She’s coming.”

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s fever induced delirium as he walks away. “No she isn’t. I told you…I’m in love with _you,_ you crazy git. And I’ll be right back.”

He jogs all the way up the road to the production site, worried despite his calm demeanor. It is unusual for Sherlock to be so confused and weak, even when he’s sick. The only time he has ever seen Sherlock this confused was when The Woman had drugged him. If he is shaking and unable to stand, that means there could be an infection. He shakes off the worry. Worrying is useless. He needs to ensure that Sherlock is okay. When he gets to the production camp, he orders the paramedics to the filming site and rides in the back of the ambulance with them.

He stumbles out of the ambulance, ready to rush to Sherlock’s side but what he actually finds in the arena is the sight of the two cameramen, lying unconscious on the ground. Their cameras are gone and so is Sherlock.

The medics rush towards the crew. 

“They’re alive sir. Just knocked out.”

But John isn’t listening. He is putting everything together.

Everything starts to gather in front of his eyes, all the facts gathering into the big picture: Sherlock is gone. Sherlock could not have walked more than two steps and now he’s gone and there are two men unconscious. Whoever knocked them out also took the cameras.

_“The Corkscrew Killer wants to kill on camera, John. She wants her big finale to be broadcast live.”_

Sherlock had grown increasingly uneasy during their talk. Sherlock usually didn’t look drowsy and confused unless drugged.

“ _She drugs them, John. She paralyzes them first and they are awake as she twists the corkscrew into their belly button but they can’t move. They can’t even scream. That’s how she murders them.”_

They hadn’t caught the Corkscrew Killer. Kate Stevens had been a red herring. 

_“She wants to kill on national television, John. This is to be her magnum opus. Most certainly she will wait for the finale to be broadcast live and kidnap the bachelor and kill him on national television.”_

But it wasn’t the bachelor who had been the target. It had been Sherlock all along.

Who could it be? Who would know where they were filming and have access to the site? Sherlock had realized he’d been drugged at the last moment. Sherlock had asked him to stay.

_“Don’t go. Don’t. Mary. You have to…Mary. She’s coming.”_

Mary. No. Oh, god no. It’s Mary.

“Sherlock!” he calls out, despite the fact that he knows it's futile.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock blinks his eyes open and is unsurprised to find himself shirtless and tied by his wrists to a rope hanging from the ceiling. Nor is he surprised to find himself staring down the unblinking face of Mary Morstan and two cameras pointing at him. Mary who had deflected any suspicion by admitting upfront that she knew who they were, Mary who had helped them on the case, Mary who had convinced him that John was in love with her and therefore escaped his scrutiny.

He is surprised to find that he can move. Isn’t he supposed to be paralyzed? He tugs experimentally at his bonds and finds them unforgiving.

“You’re too good to kill on silent setting, Mr. Holmes,” Mary says. “I gave you a minor dose. I wanted the pleasure of you being one hundred percent here for this. You’ve been worth all the trouble, my dear.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Sherlock says with a flirtatious smile.

“You didn’t catch on! Though, I suppose you realized your error at the very last moment. I almost expected you to figure it out earlier,” Mary says with a shrug. “But then I guess you were a little compromised by your desire to keep John Watson happy. Shame that. I feel bad for him: finding your mangled corpse here.”

“Yes, I suppose he’ll be a little upset,” Sherlock concedes, cool as a cucumber. “But I’m afraid your satisfaction will be a little short-lived considering you’ve quite given yourself away on national television. What do you expect will happen? They’ll simply thank you for a great series finale and let you walk off? Hmmm. I suppose that’s not unlikely, considering what a boost this will be in the ratings but John gets a little vicious with people who hurt me.”

“Oh I’ll be far away by the time they get here.”

“Will you?”

“Yes. I will. Two words: Jim Moriarty.”

Sherlock snorts his disbelief. “Of course this is Moriarty! You really think he is going to get you out of this? What makes you trust him?”

Mary doesn’t respond. She looks at him straight in the eyes and doesn’t say a word. But Sherlock knows. Sherlock knows because he sees the clench of her jaw and he’s been secretly in love with someone he thought unattainable as well, so he knows it when he sees it.

“Oh for god’s sake! You’ve gone and fallen in love with him,” Sherlock snorts in disbelief. “You are in love with Jim Moriarty. How quaint! It’s actually amusing, this touch of Shakespeare. I’m tragically in love with my best friend whom I thought was in love with the woman who is, in fact, in love with my arch nemesis who is tragically in love with me.”

This gets a rise out of Mary. Good. Sherlock just needs to hold her interest until John finds him. John has to find him. He has to.

“Shut up,” Mary says, brandishing a syringe and holding it up for him to see. “Say more nonsense and I will paralyze you.”

“As I’m about to die, I don’t think that makes much of a difference,” Sherlock says calmly. “What I am interested in is why you think he is capable of loving you back. He is obsessed with me. The closest thing Jim Moriarty has that resembles love, he’s already devoted to me.”

“Shut up.”

“He feels nothing for you other than a certainty that you’ll do his bidding. If you just let me go I can—“

“That’s it,” Mary exclaims, stabbing him with the needle.

The drug takes effect almost instantly and he feels his limbs go heavy and then limp.

“Now,” Mary drawls. “Where were we?”

She brandishes a corkscrew and caresses the quivering muscles of his stomach with its cold metallic edges.

“I’m not going to pretend this won’t hurt,” she whispers tenderly against the shell of his ears. “It’s designed to hurt: me twisting the corkscrew inside you. But at least I won’t hear you scream.”

Sherlock’s breath hitches as he braces himself for the agony. He can feel the tip of the screw pressed against his navel. This is it. There is no cavalry coming. They are too late. And Sherlock will die. He isn’t afraid of death. But he never got to tell John…he never got to tell John that he loves him back and John will find his dead body here. God, that makes him sick. The thought of John finding his body.

He closes his eyes in exhaustion and feels the push of sharp metal against his skin and then…the unmistakable sound of a gun’s safety being popped off.

“Move away from him or I swear, I will shoot you before you can even nick his skin.”

_John._

Sherlock hears the commotion. He hears shouting and a gunshot and people calling his name but ultimately all he cares about are the strong hands that are cutting him down, cradling his neck, lowering him to the floor, examining him for injuries. He struggles to blink his eyes open but he can’t. He’s too tired.

“Sherlock,” says a well-loved voice. “You’re okay. I’ve got you now. I’ve got you.”

He wants to say that he knows but his lips are too heavy and the darkness that settles around him is too inviting. Before he passes out completely, he thinks he hears a breath of a voice against his ear: “I’m here, love.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock wakes up with an incredibly dry mouth, aching limbs, heavy eyelids but otherwise completely intact. He smiles as he spots John at his bedside, half-hidden behind a newspaper.

“John,” he croaks, his voice breaking with the effort.

Everything is going to be fine. John loves him. He is alive and John loves him.

But then John lowers his newspaper angrily (angrily? How does one lower a newspaper angrily? But John manages it). He folds it and stares at him with the fury of all hell in his eyes.

Maybe not fine, after all. 

“What did I tell you?” John snaps, eyes narrowed. “I said, ‘Sherlock, nothing good is going to come of us going on _The Bachelor_.’ And look where we are now. In Bart’s bloody Hospital.”

“John.”

“You absolute git. You absolute raging—" 

“I deduced that it was her at the very last second! I asked you not to leave,” Sherlock reminds him.

“God, don’t remind me of that. Don’t you think I don’t feel awful about it already?” 

They are silent for a few moments.

“I knew you’d find me. I knew you’d save me,” Sherlock says, smiling. 

“Good thing for you that I remembered your phone has a GPS like the pink lady’s, you madman. You were almost gutted on national television,” John says angrily.

“You could be a little nicer to me. I was almost gutted on national television,” Sherlock croaks and then coughs with the sting of how dry and dehydrated his throat is. 

John is beside him in a second, holding a cup of water to his mouth. He drinks gratefully.

“You were nearly killed,” John says softly, sitting on his bed and brushing his curls away from his forehead. 

“Well, it was inevitable that one of your girlfriends would try to off me eventually. Surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” Sherlock jokes, hoping to see John smile. John struggles to keep the smirk off his face, makes a strangled noise and practically drapes himself on Sherlock, hugging him close.

 “I was so afraid that I wouldn’t find you in time, Sherlock. I’ve never been more terrified in my life,” John says, hugging him tightly.

Sherlock moves his hands with some effort and hugs John back awkwardly. “And I was so afraid I was going to die without telling you…without ever having told you: John Watson, I love you.”

John pulls back and sits up straight, grinning at him. “Course you do,” he says, pleased.

“If you’ve changed your mind…” Sherlock ventures cautiously, “I would understand if what you said was due to pressure...if you want to be friends—“

“Just shut up, Sherlock,” John says, smiling, “half the world knows I’m in love with you.”

At Sherlock’s questioning expression, he points to a stack of newspapers and tabloids resting on the side table. Each one of them has a picture of Sherlock and John plastered on the cover.

 “Apparently, everyone thought this would be the most boring season of _The Bachelor_ in history because the final choice was so clear to the audience from the get-go. We’re lucky they all fell in love with us regardless of the obvious ending because if we’d ruined their ratings we would have hell to pay for,” John explains and points at a large bouquet of flowers on the windowsill. “As it is, Kevin Fowler is madly in love with you for almost dying in his show. In fact, as much as I’m in love with you, he might give me a run for my money. He dropped by to give you the flowers himself and he was looking at you with stars in his eyes. I swear he would have snogged you thoroughly as you slept if I hadn’t fought him off you. I’m a little worried you’ll leave me for him,” John says, laughing.

Sherlock is only half listening to what John is saying, he just looks at John in wonder, still unable to comprehend that what he’s wanted for so long is finally his and that it all seems so easy. There has to be a catch. “I’ve never wanted anyone but you. I never even knew I could want anyone,” he says solemnly, a little shaken from this new development.

John stops laughing when he sees his serious expression, cupping his face and placing gentle kisses against his chapped lips. “And I’ve never loved anyone but you,” he says in a confidential whisper against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock’s hands come to grasp at the back of John’s shirt of their own accord. He’s a little broken and unable to hide it as he’s exhausted and still sluggish from the drugs. He collapses against John’s shoulder. “John, do you really mean this? You do really mean this. I can’t…I don’t…I’ve wanted this for so long, I don’t know what to do now that I have you. I don’t know how to keep you or to make you happy. I don’t know anything about how any of this works—“

“I’ve got you,” John says confidently. “I don’t need you to be anything other than who you are. You. You. You make me happier than anything in the world. Just _being near you_ is all that I could ever want. I was ready to happily spend the rest of my life with you, as your friend. The fact that you want more than that is…amazing.”

John has one hand on his cheek and Sherlock fights and loses the battle to not melt into the touch like he is starved for affection. He is. He is starved for this. And John is looking at him with a bewildered expression, as if surprised that this should mean so much to Sherlock.

And then John kisses him. Hands cradling his face, he gives him a deep, searing kiss that sets Sherlock’s skin on fire and makes him whimper into John’s mouth. He returns it with passion, tangling his hands in John’s hair. 

“Ahem,” comes an unwelcome cough from the doorway of the room.

They break apart to find Mycroft leaning on his umbrella in the doorway.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The final proof that you have dedicated your life singularly to the task of annoying me to death.”

That earns him a sour expression from Mycroft and an affectionate smile from John.

“Can we help you?” John asks, reaching out to hold Sherlock’s hand and looking completely unaffected by the fact that he has just been caught snogging the baby brother of the deadliest man in all of Europe, if not the whole world. Sherlock might just die of loving him.

“I see congratulations are in order,” Mycroft says smugly. “Shall I have mummy bring out the old wedding china or will you be settling for something cozier?”

That makes Sherlock flinch and look away. Mentioning the word _wedding_ in front of John, when they haven’t even settled on whether they were in a relationship or not…

But John just tightens his hold on Sherlock’s hand. “What do you need, Mycroft? Your brother needs rest. Doctor’s orders.”

“Yes and only a fool argues with his doctor,” Sherlock says, grinning. “So piss off Mycroft.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “As much as you love to cast me as the villain in your little drama, I am here to remind you that the real villain is still out there. Believe it or not, I am here because I want to make sure you’re safe.” 

Sherlock frowns thoughtfully. “Moriarty didn’t really expect Mary Morstan to succeed.”

“He didn’t really expect Mary Morstan to succeed,” Mycroft confirms. “It was just a warning, Sherlock. I’m upgrading the surveillance status on Baker Street but not without your consent. Not this time. I can’t have you trying to outsmart my security measures. We need to provide a united front for Moriarty, brother mine. The childish feud needs to be put on a temporary hold.”

He doesn’t thank Mycroft but he doesn’t argue. He simply nods with a hint of gratitude in his eyes. Mycroft nods back in acknowledgement and they wordlessly agree to take down Moriarty together.

Mary had been a pawn in Moriarty’s game. Sherlock feels sad for her for a brief moment. She had loved Moriarty and had suffered for it. She had followed him blindly. And Sherlock knows the feeling of being willing to do _anything_ for the person you love and he can’t help but spare a thought for her even as he knows any person foolish enough to love Jim Moriarty doesn’t deserve his pity.

Mycroft turns to leave but hesitates at the door. “Oh and Dr. Watson,” he says stiffly. “I shall forever be grateful to you for saving my brother’s life. Look after him, won’t you?”

With that, he sweeps out of the room, leaving Sherlock gaping after him.

“So you’re in love with me and Mycroft just came here to say that he’s fond of me and wants me alive,” Sherlock summarizes, amused. “If this day offers any more declarations of hitherto undeclared sentiment I may die of a heart attack. What next? Are Donovan and Anderson about to burst in here and confess to be my biggest fans?”

This earns him a pleased laugh from John, who is about to respond when the door opens, as if on cue, and Lestrade walks into the room.

“Ah, Lestrade,” Sherlock says brightly. “Have you come to confess your feeling for me as well?”

Lestrade blinks in confusion but John laughs again and squeezes his hand tightly. Lestrade’s eyes seem to be fixed on their entwined hands. He smiles.

“No, mate. I’m alright. I think John may have a few choice words for anyone offering you love confessions at the moment,” Lestrade says, grinning.

“Yes, I would,” John agrees, smiling.

“So it’s true then. It wasn’t an act for the cameras or anything?” Lestrade says.

Why must everyone make them talk about this? And why is everyone surprised that John could possibly love Sherlock?! Some of the hurt must show on Sherlock’s face because Lestrade waves his hands hastily and adds: “Not that it wasn’t obvious to everyone else that you’re mad for each other. It’s just nice to know you’ve caught on. What’s wrong with your brother, by the way? I ran into him on his way out and he looked bleaker than usual.”

“Oh don’t mind him,” Sherlock says. “Mycroft’s only upset that I’ve survived a murder attempt. The only way Moriarty could hurt him more than by dangling my demise in front of him without delivering on the promise would be if he tied him up and forced him to watch someone eat cake for hours.”

Lestrade blinks at him, horrified at his dark sense of humor, but John giggles and melts into him, placing a quick kiss on his lips. Apparently he is living another man’s life now. He almost died and woke up to find that his life contains the following: unabashed handholding, appreciative kisses as rewards for his inappropriate jokes, being told that “being near him” was enough to make John happy. Sherlock is not under the illusion that this will last. John will realize his mistake and Sherlock will be left devastated with his heart burnt out of him, just like Moriarty wanted. But Sherlock is also not a fool and he will enjoy this mistake while it lasts.

“I came to pretend to get a statement out of you,” Lestrade says, offering him a smile. “And to make sure you’re okay. But I can see now that you’re more than fine.”

“My god, everyone’s been so concerned today. Please. This is hardly my first near death experience,” Sherlock reminds them.

“But this one was special. It was broadcast on telly, darling,” John reminds him in a sarcastically sweet voice, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

This is his life now: he gets a tongue-in-cheek “darling” and has his hair petted in front of Scotland Yard. 

Lestrade has a look on his face that Sherlock has never seen directed at him before but it’s infinitely warm and approving. “I’ll leave you to it then. I’m glad you finally got there,” Lestrade says, showing himself out with a wave of his hand. “Get some rest, you. Frankly you look bloody awful.”

“You should really get some sleep,” John advises once Lestrade has left.

Sherlock wants to disagree and continue snogging John but the drugs have left him woozy and exhausted.

“Just a quick nap. And then I want to go home,” Sherlock says imperiously.

“Of course, dear. Whatever you say, dear,” John jokes.

Irrationally, Sherlock has a keen desire to fall asleep with John’s hands in his, with John soothing him and touching him. But it’s such a childish and impossible desire that he doesn’t dare ask for it. He doesn’t have a right to ask for it and the thought that John might say no is too horrifying to contemplate. He lets John withdraw his hands and closes his eyes, ready to let sleep claim him.

Minutely pass and he tries to relax as he hears John take his place in the bedside chair. And then, impossibly, just as he’s about to fall asleep, there are hands holding his, rubbing smooth circles on his knuckles, gentle fingers carding through his hair. 

“Don’t leave. Please,” he mumbles before he can help it, just as he feels sleep pulling him under.

John’s hands pause for a moment in their ministrations. Ah. John hadn’t realized he was still awake.  He had waited for Sherlock to fall asleep before indulging in comforting him. The fact that John might want this and be as scared as Sherlock is makes something bloom in his chest.

“Never. I’ll never leave,” John whispers against the soft skin of his wrist.

 

* * *

 

 “Sherlock! Sherlock!” John calls, trying to raise his voice to attract the consulting detective’s attention. But Sherlock ignores him, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

 John is standing inside the doorway of their home, holding the front door open for Sherlock, who--somewhere between the cab and the front door--has somehow become distracted and is now standing on the pavement and scanning the street instead of following John inside.

 John knows what he is seeing. Well, no. He’s never quite sure what Sherlock is seeing or, rather, _observing._ But he knows what Sherlock is looking for. The threat of Moriarty looms larger now that he has managed to get so close to them twice: first at the pool and now with _The Bachelor_ misadventure. Sherlock hasn’t said a thing but John has _observed._ He knows that Sherlock would never accept Mycroft’s meddling unless the situation was dire. Besides, Sherlock was preoccupied and quiet during their ride home from the hospital. Now, he is staring the street down with his hawk eyes as if he expects to deduce the traps laid for them just by looking at thin air.

_What are you seeing, you loveable madman? You’re deducing a hundred things, I bet. You’re deducing the footprints of old lovers in the mud and what that woman said to her child this morning and that man’s heartbreaking fight with his wife last night. Deduce me then. Deduce that I will never let Jim Moriarty hurt you, hurt what we have together._

“Sherlock,” he calls again, forcefully. Finally, the detective spins around to look at him. For a moment, his expression is disoriented, as it always is when he is yanked out of an intense stream of thought but then his face clears when he realizes it is John calling his name. He looks at John with such joy that John can’t help but grin back. Every time he’s touched or kissed or even looked at Sherlock in the past twenty-four hours, the younger man’s expression has scrunched up in surprise, disbelief and utter delight. It’s as if every time John touches him it is for the first time, as if he believes that John will pull back at any second and reveal it all to be an elaborate joke or simply disappear into thin air.

John realizes that it’s not just Moriarty but also their relationship that has Sherlock so anxious. Sherlock. His Sherlock, who has never trusted anyone with his heart before has basically laid it at John’s mercy and asked him not to break it. On the surface, Sherlock has been flirting and joking comfortably but underneath the surface, John can feel the uncertainty, the vulnerability, the fragile hope.

Now that John has everything he has ever wanted, he will make sure Sherlock has all of him in return. Together they can do anything. If Moriarty meant to frighten them or mock their relationship by leading them on a wild-goose chase in _The Bachelor,_ he has another thing coming. They are stronger and better than ever and John is going to take Sherlock’s hand, take him to bed, strip him and prove that to him. He is going to tell Sherlock every one of his dark secrets and expose himself so thoroughly that Sherlock will never have to worry again about how much John wants him. He will allay all of Sherlock’s fears, lay them to rest, melt them under the warmth of the love he has for this man.

These thoughts run through his head in the time it takes Sherlock to finally abandon his inspection of the street and come inside. Instead of stepping aside to let Sherlock walk past him, John pulls his consulting detective into the house by the waist and starts kissing him before the door is even shut behind them.

He doesn’t kiss him with the needy passion that they had shared in the hospital; rather he kisses Sherlock’s soft lips slowly, lazy and playful, like they are a couple (because they are) and like they will kiss carelessly a hundred times in the foyer of their home (they will). 

“John,” Sherlock says in a breathy voice, smiling against his lips. “I—“ 

But John’s phone rings at that exact moment and he extracts it to find Kevin Fowler’s name plastered on caller ID.

Sherlock frowns and attempts to snatch the phone away, just as John exclaims, “This should be amusing!” and puts it on speaker.

“Hello Kevin,” John says. 

“John, John,” Kevin says, flattery already oozing from his thick American voice. “I’m so worried about Sherlock. How is he doing? How is his recovery? I’ve been sick with worry this entire time. Did he like my flowers?”

Sherlock’s frown deepens but John rolls his eyes in amusement and pushes Sherlock against the wall ever so playfully, placing a small kiss against his jaw.

“Yes, I think he’s okay,” John says, keeping his voice deadpan. “Well, he’ll need a lot of looking after, naturally. I’ll have to be very very attentive.”

He places another kiss on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock, who no longer seems to mind Kevin Fowler’s phone call, wraps his arms around John and smiles in amusement. John lets one hand trail down and slip under Sherlock’s shirt, caressing where the skin of his taut stomach meets the fabric of his trousers. Sherlock stifles a moan.

“But with some _hard_ work on my part, everything will _come together_ nicely,” John says, nipping at Sherlock’s lips just as his fingers manage to slip inside the waistband of both the trousers and pants and brush right against his—

Sherlock grips him tight and muffles a moan against his shoulder. 

Kevin doesn’t seem to hear a thing. “Good! That’s great. His health is my number one priority. Say, if you need me to send over some people to help out or some food, you don’t hesitate, okay? We’re all just so worried about you and we want you to be relaxed and happy. Maybe we can get both of you a nice holiday package…somewhere sunny and calm, with no drama. And I would like to send, maybe a couple of camera with you but nothing stressful, nothing intrusive, ya know? I would just—“

John has been to busy leaving open-mouthed kisses against Sherlock’s neck, so it’s Sherlock who grabs the phone from John and says, calmly: “Could you, for the love of all things, stop your ill-constructed lies about your concern for my health. Because you will never get us to sign another contract with you and all you are doing is annoying me to death while I’m trying to get off with John.”

John giggles against the soft skin of Sherlock’s neck and cups the front Sherlock’s trousers with the palm of his hand, even as two of his fingers are still tucked inside Sherlock’s pants and dangerously close to his erection. Sherlock clamps a hand against his mouth to muffle his groan. 

Kevin splutters for a second. “Sherlock. My man, Sherlock! How are you? Gosh. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to help. If you don’t give the public more face time, they’ll just hound you down with paparazzi and stuff. If you just let me give them enough to appease them…I’m doing this _for you…_ I mean, I want to protect your privacy by appeasing—” 

“Mr. Fowler,” John growls, growing impatient. “I am about to half-carry Sherlock Holmes, certified genius and world’s only consulting detective, up a flight of stairs to a bedroom, where I plan on keeping him for the next two days. We are going to have mad amounts of very very gratifying sex and also solve crimes and be madly in love for the rest of our lives. Occasionally, there will be an exploded experiment and a bit of shouting but no couple is perfect, eh? This is the only statement you’re getting from either of us on the subject. Feel free to plaster it on the front of every single publication in the world. I really couldn’t care less.”

He hangs up and shoves the phone into his coat. Sherlock is clinging to him, panting and grinning.

“Every time I think you can’t get any more marvelous, you exceed my expectations,” Sherlock says, smirking. “John, I—I can’t quite believe—“

“Start believing,” John growls, dragging Sherlock up the stairs, one hand still half inside Sherlock’s pants and the other dragging him by the shirt. They giggle between sloppy kisses and stumble and almost fall. “Start believing, Sherlock. Please. I need you to believe me. In a moment, I’m going to show you how foolish it was of you to ever think I was in love with someone else, that I could ever want someone else while you exist.”

They burst into the flat, groping and bumping against each other and laughing and almost falling on the floor. It takes all of John’s strength to direct them to Sherlock’s bedroom without landing in a heap. Their coats and scares and gloves trail behind them like breadcrumbs.

“Moriarty isn’t a match for the two of us when we work together,” John assures him between kisses, kicking the door to Sherlock’s bedroom open.

Sherlock’s eyes light up with surprise. “How did you—“

“I may not be a genius,” John says, unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. “But I am a genius on the topic of  _you_ and I can tell when you’re worrying. Don’t. We’re invincible together.”

John tosses Sherlock’s shirt to the side and gives Sherlock’s bared torso a push and watches with immense satisfaction as Sherlock flop down on the bed on his back, arms stretched above him, lips bruised and parted for him.

“We are, aren’t we?” Sherlock says, smiling up at him with a wicked twinkle in his eyes. And John can see the confidence click into place. They’re getting there. He’s making Sherlock see how loved he is, how sure their relationship is.

“Quite the formidable duo: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” Sherlock says dramatically and then stretches with feline grace, his muscles rippling and flexing, and then he quirks an eyebrow at John and huffs: “Are you going to stand there and watch or are you going to get over here and show me how much you want me and all that? I appreciate all the sweet-nothings, John. But I’d like to see you back your words with some _action._ ”

Definitely getting there.

John pulls off his own shirt and climbs on top of Sherlock, feeling absolutely predatory, and kisses him fiercely, relishing the feeling of their bare skin against each other.

“John,” Sherlock mumbles between kisses, trying to tell him something but unable to when his mouth is covered by John’s lips and tongue. “John,” he says a little more insistently. John breaks their kiss reluctantly but remains lying on top of Sherlock.

“If you were never with Mary and you never intended to propose to her, why was there a ring box in your pocket that day in Venice?” Sherlock asks, a thoughtful frown on his face.

John freezes. He had not been expecting that. Can’t Sherlock just be distracted by foreplay like everyone else? _Busted_. _He’s busted._

“I put it in my pocket just to throw you off. It worked like a dream. I had you fooled the entire time,” John says, recovering smoothly.

Sherlock grins up at him like a cat that’s gotten the cream and the canary and a nice murder all in one go. “Very clever. You’re quite quick on your feet, John Watson,” he says, placing a kiss on John’s neck.

“Thanks. I always thought so,” John deadpans.

“But sadly for you, you are dating a genius with considerable powers of deductive reasoning,” Sherlock says, a sly grin on his face.  

“Is that so?” John says, swallowing nervously.

“Oh, yes. I’m quite well known for my deductive reasoning. Just ask around,” Sherlock teases, placing small kisses on his neck. “I figured it out almost immediately.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, eyes bright and dangerous. 

In one swift move, Sherlock flips him over so that their positions are reversed and John is pinned beneath Sherlock, gazing up at him helplessly. He is aware that he’s breathing quite heavily, nerves and arousal leaving his heart beating at a hundred miles an hour.

“And yes, of course. You’re disgustingly sentimental and it’s a ridiculously outdated practice. But of course, I accept, _darling_ ,” Sherlock says in a saccharine voice as he bends down to kiss John again and John laughs into the kiss, feeling the joy bubble up inside him. They’re going to be fine. Better than fine. They’re going to be married.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everyone! I really really appreciated all of your kind words and kudos and bookmarks. This is sweeter and fluffier and happier than what I usually write so it's been great to get positive feedback on it. If you want updates on my other stuff or if you just want to chat, my tumblr is: lemmonysnippets.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think.


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